


it pours

by sonatine



Series: inclement weather [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Disability, EMT Steve, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Modern AU, government worker bucky, idiots in love who can't talk about their feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-19 02:55:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7341742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonatine/pseuds/sonatine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve waltzes back into Bucky's life after a ten year absence, but Bucky's afraid of getting hurt again</p>
            </blockquote>





	it pours

 

It's such a stupid fucking thing, the kind of thing that can happen to anyone, obviously; but Bucky has survived floods, earthquakes, a rattlesnake bite, escaped from a burning building, and sweet-talked his way out of a bank holdup.

And now here he is bleeding out on the sidewalk from a _car accident_. How banal.

He’s more irritated than anything, because he’s missing an important presentation for this, and it's not until the paramedics show up that he thinks, _Shit_ — _Steve_.

Because when you've only been hanging out a couple weeks, you don't want the first time your crush sees you naked to be in the back of an ambulance.

But the EMT who kneels down next to him is a handsome black guy with a kind face who is talking calmly and steadily to him. Bucky relaxes.

And it's not until he sees Steve’s stricken face overtop a stretcher that it even hits him that he might be badly hurt.

+

“Rogers,” Sam says again. “You gonna be all right or are you too close to this? Call Morita over here instead, you can drive this trip.”

“Fine,” Steve says shortly. “ _I’m_ fine,” he amends, stooping down next to Bucky. “Hey drama queen, if you wanted more attention you could've just hit on some other guy in front of me.”

“Go hard or go home,” Bucky says, his voice cracking a little because the shock is wearing off and the pain is setting in.

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve says, efficiently going about his business of checking vitals and doing—stuff… Things are getting a little hazy now and Bucky vaguely remembers answering questions that the handsome black guy is asking him, and then he finds himself in the interior of an ambulance.

“You've got a nice face,” he tells Steve, whose responding smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.

+

There is a large bullseye floating in front of Bucky’s peripheral vision, which is confusing because he could've sworn he was at work and not at the bar down the street.

Then he wakes up further and realizes he is in fact not at work but in a blank monotone room—and the bullseye is a bicep tattoo belonging to one Steve Rogers, who Bucky has never seen in short sleeves before.

“Hey jerk,” Steve says. His voice is raspy. “How ya feeling?”

“Um.” Bucky takes in his surroundings. “Okay, I guess. Were you smoking?”

“What? No,” says Steve, suddenly shifty. “And I meant in terms of morphine. Want me to up the drip?”

Bucky looks over. His brain is still kind of fuzzy but he registers a vague throbbing pain somewhere so he says, “Yeah, up it.”

Steve adjusts the IV and then unfolds himself from the tiny chair; Bucky wonders how he fit into it in the first place. “I'm gonna go find the doctor. Hang tight, champ.”

“Okay?” Bucky says.

Steve bites his lip and leans over to brush a kiss against Bucky’s forehead.

+

The physical therapy is 90% more brutal than it should be and this is 110% Natasha’s fault. He doesn't realize until three weeks in that she has been sneaking in bulking-up routines into the standard rehabilitation repertoire.

“Obviously not,” she says, when he confronts her about it, mainly to give himself a secret break. “It's to accustom your right arm to being dominant now. Don't be so paranoid.”

“You just want to bulk me up so you have more eye candy during these sessions,” he says, sweating through the task.

“Maybe I'm doing you a favor,” she says, eyes wide and innocent. “You won't be able to switch hands anymore when that big, blond Top of yours sleeps over now.”

+

Typing is an unexpected hardship at work now. Bucky can text easily with one hand, and since he walks or takes public transport, driving isn't an issue.

“It's literally just the typing thing,” he grouses to Steve on the phone one night while he's chopping vegetables. He's found a decent way to anchor them with his hip. “Which is so ironic, considering none of the other manual labor stuff I did for the Peace Corps would be nearly as affected. Even the beekeeping part.”

“See if they can give you a tablet instead of a computer,” Steve says over the sound of SportsCenter. “You can do voice-to-text.”

“Fucking desk job.”

“Capitalism _is_ a soul-sucking demon,” Steve says and Bucky has to hang up because his laughter is dislodging his food prep system.

+

Bucky takes to going to the gym as supplement to his PT. It's one of those old-school gyms with rickety wood and just weights and punching bags and none of the modern gym glam—and there's only ever like five people there at a time.

A lot of the guys that work out there are former vets, and a couple of them are also amputees. They give him advice and crack jokes, although Bucky can see the quiet desperation and fatigue behind their eyes and tries his best to be grateful.

One of the old guys, who honestly must be pushing eighty, collapses one evening when Bucky’s there. He hangs back when the EMTs arrive because it's Sam and _Steve_ , and Bucky’s never been able to observe Steve at his job before.

Steve is self-assured and efficient, but also clearly kind of jokey and easygoing in contrast to Sam’s calm steadiness. People respond to him so easily.

It's such a vast difference to the perpetually angry, scrappy little instigator that Bucky knew in high school. He feels a burst of pride and then a stab of longing.

When did Steve acquire so much charm?

And when did Bucky lose all of his?

+

Steve is getting off a late-ish shift and Bucky’s anxiety and phantom pains are keeping him awake, so they meet up at a grungy hole in the wall pizza place down by Bleeker and Myrtle.

Steve’s thrown a sweatshirt over his uniform, which Bucky is grateful for in multiple ways: one, no one else will be eyeing him up tonight; two, it makes Bucky’s long-greasy-hair-and-hoodie combo seem less tragic and more of a statement.

They ingest a pizza and pitcher of beer each before coming up for air and Steve starts doodling on the table paper with crayons.

“What are your plans for Thanksgiving?” he asks.

“Uh. None, really,” Bucky says.

Steve looks up, hesitant. “Family’s gone?”

“Nah, just. Fell out. When I came out.”

It feels weird to have to give this explanation, because shouldn't they be past this? Wasn't this a problem for _previous_ generations?

Steve is making that face: the one where he doesn't want to smother or patronize Bucky but wants so badly to say something.

“You can say it,” Bucky says.

“I'm sorry for you,” Steve says. “That your family would do that.”

“Yeah, well.” Bucky fiddles with the end of a napkin. “It is what it is.”

“It shouldn't be,” Steve says fiercely, and Bucky laughs: _there’s_ the Steve he remembers from high school.

+

Bucky comes over to Steve’s early on Thanksgiving. Like literally the crack of dawn. Steve has to go into work in the afternoon, so starting as early as possible is logical, but dragging himself out of bed at six is hellish.

He doesn't bother dressing up; Steve’s is only a fifteen-minute walk away and both of them wanted a chill day.

Steve opens the door with a smile, in sweatpants and a t-shirt like Bucky. “Hey. Come in.”

His hand is warm on the small of Bucky’s back as he ushers him inside and Bucky’s breath catches. He kicks off his boots and tosses his leather jacket and sweatshirt over the couch back. (Steve surreptitiously hangs them on the wall hook after Bucky goes into the kitchen.)

“Here, brought everything on your list.” Bucky sets the bulging reusable bag on the tiny table under the kitchen window, shoved between the fridge and the counter. He understands Natasha’s insistence on bulking up his arm now. “You started the turkey yet?”

“In the five minutes since I woke up?”

“Steve.” Bucky gives him an exasperated look and immediately preheats the oven. “Is it defrosted at least?”

“Um.” Steve glances guiltily at the fridge. “Stop laughing!”

“It's not gonna be done by the time you go to work!”

“You think it's gonna take six hours to cook a turkey?”

“Oh god, you're a disaster. How did you do Thanksgiving up until now?”

Steve shrugged, laughing gamely but says, “I didn't, really.”

“Oh.” Bucky immediately feels like a dick. “No family at all?”

“Got an uncle, I think, out west, but I've never met him. It wasn't so bad, I usually just took full holiday shifts. Overtime, plus a meal at the hospital.”

Bucky smiles at him slowly. “You took off this year?”

“Just a half day,” Steve says defensively.

“Yeah, only half altruistic instead of whole. Shameful.”

“Shaddup. Get started on the mash. At least we can gorge ourselves on potatoes and stuffing.”

Bucky puts the turkey in the oven anyway around two pm, once they've eaten potatoes and stuffing and vegetables and pie and are conked out on the couch watching a _Star Trek_ movie marathon.

Steve's couch is sufficiently worn-in and their legs are overlapping in the middle where they're both stretched out. It's just really _nice_ in a cozy holiday way that Bucky hasn't experienced since he was eighteen; he feels oddly choked up about it.

He gets the feeling Steve might too, because he makes an aborted hacking noise when Kirk is saying goodbye to a suffocating Spock.

Bucky slouches further into the center of the couch, so that he's curled up against Steve’s side. Steve shifts downward so that his head rests against the top of Bucky’s and that their arms are pressed together.

Three o’clock rolls around and Steve has to get ready for his shift. Bucky makes a pained noise when Steve rises from the couch and Steve looks down at him.

“You could stay,” he says. “Until I get back. Make yourself comfortable.”

Bucky hesitates because he wants to, kind of— it sounds nice—but this isn't his space yet.

“Thanks, but I'm just gonna go home and crash. But—” He can't tell if Steve _wants_ him to be around or if he's just being polite—“I can come back later. Shit, yeah, to take the turkey out of the oven.”

Steve goes over to the kitchen and pulls a key out of a cabinet. “Here,” he tosses it to Bucky, “come over whenever and make sure I don't burn my home down. Bring some beers, hang out as long as you want. We can have a late dinner.”

“Cool,” Bucky says. He busies himself on his phone, watching through the corner of his eye and the crack in the door as Steve changes in his bedroom.

Bucky catches only a glimpse of a broad back and powerful shoulders, but shivers all the same. He remembers hooking up with Steve when he was tiny and skinny, and it was great, but now he's imagining this different version of Steve on top of him, behind him, and Bucky has to get up and put on his jacket and boots.

+

Bucky lets himself back into Steve’s apartment around eight. He puts the beers in the fridge and takes out the turkey. He then, guiltily, snoops around the living areas, just a little, though he stays out of the bedroom.

He’s just so curious about this new Steve—because people change, they do, _a lot_ in ten years. Steve is still funny and smart and loyal and all the things that originally attracted Bucky to him in high school; but dating in the adult world requires a lot more compatibility than a mutual attraction. And Bucky’s been hurt before. His caution is getting in the way of his deep draw to Steve.

There are a few paintings and photographs framed on the wall and a shelf with books and clearly things of nostalgic importance. It's a tiny, old one-bedroom apartment, but Steve clearly values his own space.

Running shoes by the door. Mismatched pots and pans in the kitchen, aloe plant on the windowsill, various medical equipment shoved in out-of-the-way places. Boxing gloves hung over the back of a kitchen chair, that was interesting. A gaming system, couple generations old, hooked up to the TV.

The bathroom smells like Irish Spring and dirty laundry is shoved into a hamper in a way that suggests it had previously been strewn across the floor. Bucky smiles; Steve is a secret slob. He’s dying to see the inside of his bedroom now.

Bucky steals one of the _Walking Dead_ graphic novels off the shelf and curls up on the couch.

+

Bucky wakes, disoriented. The light has changed and there’s a blanket draped over him.

He looks over to the source of the light, which turns out to be the flashlight function on Steve’s turned-over phone resting on the kitchen table, at which he is seated: drawing.

“Time is it?” Bucky croaks and Steve jumps.

“Little after one,” he says, closing the sketchbook.

“When’d you get back?”

“Bout half an hour ago.”

“You could've woken me.”

“Nah,” says Steve, looking soft. “You hungry?”

“Yeah.” And refreshed too—geez, he must've slept for four hours. “Shit, the turkey—”

“I put it on the fridge. Should I stick it in the microwave?”

“What've you got against your fully-functional oven?”  Bucky says, but Steve is grinning, the shithead.

With the turkey and leftovers reheated, they fold themselves into chairs and hunch over the table. Steve had time to change out of his uniform and into sweatpants. He’s got a leg propped up on the chair rung and is nearly curled up against the wall.

The small light above the stove is the only one burning. Bucky feels just so comfortable. The turkey’s tender enough that it falls apart with a fork, so he doesn't have to worry about cutting anything.

Steve’s hair is really fluffy and sticking up, like he was running his hands though it. Bucky suspects this may be a habit when drawing, and his attention is diverted to the sketchbook moved to the side of the table.

He sets down his fork and reaches for it. Steve tenses.

“Oh,” Bucky says, because Steve had been drawing _him_ , sprawled out asleep on the couch, arm slung over the side, legs akimbo. He made no pains to disguise the empty sleeve, in fact giving careful attention to the rendering of the fabric falling against his torso.

“I forgot you drew,” Bucky says again, and he's a little choked up. “You've gotten better.”

Steve shrugs. “Ten years’ practice.” He's watching Bucky through his lashes. “I'm sorry if—it makes you uncomfortable. I didn't ask your permission.”

“No, it's—” strangely intimate, really. It's making Bucky feel something he's not used to, and he finally pinpoints it: someone caring. About him.

He’s been on his own for so long; always moving, always a foreigner, always an outsider. He dated, but always with one foot out the door. Moving was inevitable, so the relationships were always timestamped from the start.

He's open-ended here in Brooklyn. And this is new, this—whatever, with Steve, but Bucky _knows him_.

Steve is watching him like he's waiting to be scolded or hit. Bucky closes the sketchbook and lays it aside.

“Will you help me put back my hair?”

+

Steve masks his surprise pretty well. “Sure,” he says, and extends a hand.

Bucky holds out his arm. Steve plucks the hair tie off his wrist, fingers gently brushing Bucky’s skin. He breaks into gooseflesh.

Steve stands. “Couch,” he orders.

Bucky follows. They sit sideways on the couch, legs folded, Steve behind Bucky. He gently reaches into Bucky’s hair, carding his fingers through. Bucky likes his hair long, not wholly for this reason, but goddamn is it a perk.

Steve pulls it into a clumsy ponytail (no sisters, Bucky recalls) and drops his hands. “That good?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and his voice is as husky as Steve’s. He turns. Steve tries to look at him head on, but his gaze keeps wandering down to Bucky’s mouth.

Bucky has a very clear memory of Steve at seventeen doing the same thing; sneaking beers with the guys behind Mrs. Rogers’ mechanic shop on hazy summer nights, curled in a corner and talking quietly, about whatever. Bucky was deeply in the closet, though nominally out at school. He’d had no concrete idea about Steve until his drunken gaze kept flicking down to Bucky’s lips, hands, and crotch as they talked.

The memory makes Bucky smile fondly and Steve smiles back, his stupid happy grin.

“What?” he says, and Bucky tilts his head up.

+

Steve kisses like Bucky will disappear out of his arms at any moment. His hands are everywhere: Bucky’s hair, his shoulders, stroking down his jawline, palming up his side. Bucky gasps into his mouth as Steve bites down on his lip then shifts into sweet, slow kisses. Bucky is melting back into the couch and taking Steve with him.

Bucky’s not quite sure how long it’s been when they break for air; he’s lying back on the couch now, with Steve on top of him, nestled between Bucky’s legs. Bucky’s arm is cradled around Steve’s waist, stroking the soft skin between his t-shirt.

Steve pulls in a ragged breath and traces a thumb over Bucky’s mouth. Bucky swipes his tongue over it, sucking it gently. Steve’s eyes darken.

“You want to stay the night?” he asks.

The word is out of Bucky’s mouth without thinking: “No.”

Steve flinches and tries to hide his hurt; he’s such a terrible liar, even nonverbally.

“Not… yet,” Bucky amends. “I want to. But.”

“But what?” Steve asks. He’s pulling back, he’s trying not to be pushy, but Bucky can tell he’s wounded.

“I—” but he can't find a way to phrase things that doesn't sound awful, so he says, “kiss me again.”

Steve does. Bucky pretends not to notice his reticence.

+

More days than not, Bucky wakes up with a tight chest and racing mind, for no other reason than he does.

Routines help: the two-point-five minutes to make a strong cup of tea, the brush teeth/run/shower combo, the long walks that separate home and work or home and social activity or home and task.

Sometimes he wakes up and thinks he still has his left arm and topples out of bed because he tries to lever himself up into nothing.

His running pattern is different, because life and bodies are all about balance, but even though the motion has changed the effect stays the same.

+

To make up for the previous year’s mild winter, the start of December slaps around an icy wind with a vengeance. Bucky is forced to take the bus more and more after he shows up to Steve’s with a numb hand and wind-burned cheeks.

It's a Thursday night and they haven't seen each other in a couple of weeks, due to a string of night shifts on Steve’s part and several grotesquely early-morning starts where Bucky had to be at the office for international skype calls.

As soon as Steve opens the door, Bucky is ridiculously glad to see him.

That's it: for no other reason than just to see him.

And then he knows he's in over his head.

+

They've cooked and cleaned up and then are chilling on the couch (okay, cuddling) watching TV and Steve is running his fingers through Bucky’s hair, so it takes him a long time to realize: “It's snowing.”

Steve looks out the window. “Shit, yeah it is. Hard, too.”

Bucky groans and snuggles further into Steve’s lap. “I should get home.”

“Probably.”

“It's just so warm in here.”

“Mmhm.”

“...and this feels really nice.”

“Stay over,” Steve says lightly.

Bucky tenses. “Yeah, I—got an early meeting tomorrow—”

Steve’s hands stall in his hair. Bucky winces, glad he can't see Steve’s face, but then Steve is nudging him into a sitting position. Bucky’s having trouble meeting his eyes.

“I just wanted to say,” Steve says—he’s got that earnest, urgent look on his face—“that I'll wait as long as you want, okay? I know the accident was … Just. It’s important to me that you know I'm not I’m not gonna rush you.”

“What?” Bucky looks up, lost. “The accident?”

“Well—yeah,” Steve says, now looking lost too. They stare at each other in uncertain confusion. “I thought—you didn’t want to get into anything serious because you’re still dealing with the aftereffects of—”

“ _Steve,_ ” Bucky says, and he doesn’t laugh because this feels deadly weighty. “I mean, it sucks, yeah, but it’s—I’m getting used to it. I’m in therapy. It’s—a thing, but I’m adapting. I’m afraid of _you_ ,” and this came out more blunt than he’d intended.

Steve looks suckerpunched. “Afraid?”

“No! Not— I'm afraid you’ll leave. Again. We start dating, cool, then what if you realize you don’t like me? Or you _do_ like me, but not as much as the Bucky you’ve built up in your head over all these years?”

“Oh.” Steve scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus, this is still about that?”

“Hey,” Bucky says.

“That was _ten years ago,_ Buck. We were kids. I wasn't out; and I certainly wasn't sure about my sexuality. I made a stupid mistake and hurt your feelings, yeah, but I apologized and I thought it would be clear now that we’re both adults and that I am, frankly, very interested in you.”

“Ah—” Bucky isn't at all sure what to say.

“I would've thought that the fact that I haven't been dating anyone else in the past three months would have tipped you off that I _really like you_ and that _I really want to date you_ and—honestly, I’m really hurt that you even considered that I would, what, just hook up with you and leave you out to dry?”

“Steve,” Bucky says.

Steve gets to his feet and towers above him, arms crossed, head down. “You're right. It's getting late and the snow’s only going to get worse.”

Bucky is being dismissed and it hurts like hell—even worse than the fact that Bucky is clearly the one in the wrong here.

He struggles into his coat and boots and leaves without kissing Steve goodbye.

The walk home is cold and lonely and gives him plenty of time to think. What do you do when suddenly, after seeing yourself as the wronged protagonist, you realize that _you’ve_ maybe been the bad guy this time?

+

Bucky wakes up feeling like shit.

Truly the worst part of adulthood is having to go about a normal weekday doing your best impression of a functioning human being when at best all you can handle is curling under the covers and sinking into shame’s sour embrace.

He goes through the motions of a workday, with a head full of steel wool, and doesn't text Steve.

Steve doesn't text either.

Bucky wants to fall through the floor and disappear.

+

Finally around 4pm he sucks in a strangled breath, reassures himself that communication is the key to everything and he’ll never know if he doesn't try.

He texts Steve: _hey what time’s your shift today_

‘7pm start,’ Steve replies.

Bucky grits his teeth. _can i come over before you leave? want to talk_

‘Sure,’ Steve responds, and Bucky wants to throw up.

+

The worst Steve can do is reject him, Bucky reminds himself on the bus ride there. The absolute worst thing, really, because Bucky has realized he’s definitely, super in love with Steve, and isn't that a kick in the teeth right now.

Steve answers the door in his uniform pants and white undershirt. Bucky’s mouth waters despite the obvious severity of the situation.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Steve says. “Come in.” He shuts the door behind Bucky. “You want something to drink?”

“Oh Christ,” Bucky says compulsively. “We don't have to do the fake polite thing, don't worry, I’ve come on hands and knees,” and Steve snorts, crossing his arms to listen.

“Okay. So. I've been so used to protecting myself and my feelings,” Bucky says, “that I completely ignored yours. You were right. I was thinking of you as the guy from ten years ago, which is stupid in retrospect, because I was so worried about how you'd be different now that I forgot that _different_ can be a good thing.”

He pauses to gauge Steve’s reaction. Steve is listening intently, doing that ducked-head thing where he peers up at people through his eyelashes.

“So: basically I'm sorry. I was a dick. I want to date you, for real, and I'll stop being a cagey sonofabitch and be a real boyfriend—” Bucky gulps. “I mean. If you still want that.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, idiot, my feelings haven't changed in the last twenty-four hours. I can't just turn off emotions.”

“Okay,” Bucky says cautiously, because Steve’s words were nice but his tone was still mad. “Okay,” he says again, more hopefully, as Steve breaks into a smile. “Are we—are we good? I don't _do_ relationships, I don't know how this works. Have I said sorry enough? What comes next? Stop laughing!”

“There’s no _checklist_ ,” Steve says, “but you can repeat that one part again.”

“Okay. Which one?”

“The ‘you were right’ part.”

“You are _such_ an asshole,” Bucky says, grabbing Steve’s arm and pulling him close. “Are we done fighting? Can I kiss you now?”

Steve is laughing too hard to answer, so Bucky has to infer the answer for himself.

+

“Hey,” Bucky says. “You want to come over to mine tomorrow? For dinner and—you can stay the night.”

“Wow Buck, I dunno. This is all moving kind of fast.”

“You asshole,” Bucky says again, fondly.

+

Bucky feels—light the next day. He's been talking to his therapist about being brave, because he accidentally blurted that he was more afraid to talk to Steve than run out of that burning building five years ago, and okay, maybe he has some unresolved family issues from his childhood to work through, but for right now, he feels okay.

Tomorrow might be terrible or it might be great or maybe the day after will be not-so-great—but for right now he feels okay. He’ll take it.

+

Steve brings fresh vegetables and Bucky has leftover chicken in the freezer, so they make a slow-cooking curry that can simmer while they make out on the couch.

“As much as I like kissing you,” Steve says, during a break, “I'm dying with curiosity about your place. I've only got about five minutes of self-control left before I start snooping. What? What's so funny?” and Bucky tells him about the first time he was alone in Steve’s apartment.

_“Slovenly?”_ Steve says, outraged. “Normal people leave clothes on the bathroom floor, dick.”

“It's okay, I love you anyway,” Bucky says.

They both freeze.

“Uh.” Bucky forges on, eloquently: “Um. Fuck. I know we just got back together—kind of—I mean we weren't _really_ dating—but it felt like we were—I mean.”

“Oh my god,” Steve says.

“I know it's soon—maybe too soon—but it’s how I feel, okay? And I'm not taking it back.”

“Do you remember when we were sixteen,” Steve says, “and helping your dad drywall and you asked him for _step-by-step_ instructions which you _wrote down_ and then periodically referred to?”

“I don't see how this is relevant, Steven.”

“Stop overthinking things,” he says, tracing Bucky’s lips with his finger. “Of course I love you too.”

“Mmph,” is all Bucky can say, because Steve is kissing him again.

+

“ _Jesus_ ,” Bucky gasps, holding tight to Steve’s shoulders, “it is so weird to not have to worry about crushing you—”

“I'll give _you_ weird,” Steve says, and Bucky loses the ability of speech for a while.

+

They wake up late in the morning and laze about all day, because Steve doesn't work again until Sunday, though around 5pm Bucky concedes that they might need to go outside.

“We can't stay cooped up inside tiny, shitty studio forever,” Bucky says, playfully aiming a slap to Steve’s ass.

Steve opens an eye. “Are you kidding? I just made it inside this tiny, shitty studio. If I leave now, I might never get back in. It’s probably like _Brigadoon._ ”

“I can't believe I ever thought you were straight,” Bucky says, and Steve pounces on him. Bucky’s head falls back against the pillows as Steve gets a hand around his hardening cock. Bucky thrusts up into his fist, gasping, “We’ve gotta eat sometime.”

“I can eat you right now,” Steve offers.

+

Bucky loosens his jaw so that he can suck Steve down deeper and _god_ , who knew the kinds of noises Steve could make? Not Bucky, that's for sure, and he's not going to give this up anytime soon.

+

Halfway into Saturday night Bucky gets hit by a stab of weirdness. His chest tightens and an iron hand squeezes his heart.

Steve quirks an eyebrow. “You okay?”

_Brave, be brave_ : “I don't think so,” Bucky says, struggling for breath.

“Okay,” Steve says, putting down his phone. “You want me to leave?”

“ _No_. I don't think so. No.”

“You need to take a run?”

“Yeah, maybe. Yeah.”

Bucky slides out of bed, locates some clothes, and throws ok some sneakers. He pauses with his hand on the doorknob. “I'm sorry—”

“Stop it,” Steve says easily. “You got any paper you don't care about that I can sketch on?”

“Table.” He opens the door. “You’re sure—?”

“Get _outta_ here, you punk,” Steve says.

Bucky quirks a smile and flees.

+

Steve has showered and is burrowing back in bed when Bucky gets back. Bucky slides over and kisses him deeply, trying to tell him all the things he can't verbalize.

Steve gives it as good as he gets and leaves Bucky panting, already half-hard.

“Go shower,” he says. “You're gross.”

+

The lights are off when Bucky climbs into his bed, with Steve in it, clean and warm.

He curls around Steve’s back. Steve sighs, half-asleep, and relaxes into Bucky’s embrace.

**Author's Note:**

> [ [tumblr link](http://sonatine.tumblr.com/post/146675494534/read-part-one-here-its-such-a-stupid-fucking) ]
> 
> I'll probably add on small sequels from time to time, you can subscribe to the series if you want to get update notifications!


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